


Broken Birds

by monstrofmen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dominatrixes need love too, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gay Irene, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of cuddles, Straight John, Unrequited Love, non sexual relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 15:04:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monstrofmen/pseuds/monstrofmen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not love.<br/>He's not gay and she is, but both of them lost their hearts to Sherlock Holmes, the greatest Consulting Detective in the world.<br/>It's not love, not even attraction, but they both need this.<br/>They both need to know they aren't the only one that can't ever move on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Birds

_I tend the mobile now_  
like an injured bird  
We text, text, text  
our significant words  
I re-read your first,  
your second, your third,  
look for your small xx,  
feeling absurd.  
The codes we send  
arrive with a broken chord.  
I try to picture your hands,  
their image is blurred.  
Nothing my thumbs press  
will ever be heard.  
  
Carol Ann Duffy, Text.  
  
\------JW----IA------

It starts almost two months after the end.  
  
John has slowly hidden himself from the world, ignoring Lestrade's offers of meeting up for drinks, tuning out Mrs Hudson's suggestion of moving flats, cancelling his therapy appointments...  
He hasn't heard from Mycroft since the funeral.

It surprises him when he opens the door, and finds _**The Woman**_ , cold and shivering on the front steps. Her face is devoid of make up, and her cheeks are sharper than he remembered, sallower.  
There's no biting remark, and no bloody battle armour.  
She looks like she hasn't slept in weeks.  
She looks exactly the way John feels, and despite being fully clothed, he thinks this is the most naked he's ever seen her.  
  
Silently, John steps away from the door, and she walks inside.  
  
\------JW----IA------

It develops from there.  
  
At six o'clock most nights, she knocks on his door, and he lets her inside. He offers a cup of tea, and they'll order Chinese.  
  
Some days, Irene - he doesn't know when he stopped calling her **_The Woman_ ** \- will pull him to the sofa and lay his head in her lap, carding her fingers through course blonde hairs, running her nails over his scalp. Other days, She'll curl up on John's chest, nuzzling into his neck and dragging in soft, stuttering breath. On those days, John will stroke her dark curls ( _so much like Sherlock's_ , he thinks) and he'll mumble broken promises into her ears.

_It'll be ok._

_We'll get through this._

_It gets easier._

When her breathing evens out, he holds her close, and shuts his eyes, free of dreams.  
  
   
\------JW----IA------

After a few months, John realises that Irene's pretty much lives with him now. He watches as she lazily butters a slice of brown bread, and grabs a yoghurt from the fridge - _no dismembered fingers_ , John thinks wryly.  
He pulls her close, and breathes in the scent of his shampoo in her still damp hair.  
If Irene notices his odd behaviour, she doesn't say anything.  
  
  
\------JW----IA------

They don't talk about Sherlock, not really.  
There are too many memories to sort through, too much bad blood to try and wash away.  
He was both of their everything, and even saying his name makes them both double over from the pain in their aching hearts.  
John can't bear to talk about how much he's lost; Irene can't bear to talk about how much she never had.  
  
  
\------JW----IA------

It's not love.  
He's not gay and she is, but both of them lost their hearts to Sherlock Holmes, the greatest Consulting Detective in the world.  
She doesn't ask about his string of one night stands, and he never questions where she goes every night, after all is said and done.  
Neither of them mind, and in a way, this... relationship... suits them perfectly.  
It's not love, not even attraction, but they both need this.  
They both need to know they aren't the only one that can't ever move on.  
  
  
\------JW----IA------

Three years later, John wakes up in their bed, completely unable to move.  
It takes him less than half a minute to know that it's Irene keeping him there, her long limbs wrapping round him and pinning him in place, bare skin pressed to bare skin.  
It took him awhile to adjust to some of her habits - like sleeping nude even in the dead of winter - but now, he doesn't even blink.  
  
He brushes the tangle of dark tresses from her face, smiling fondly at the almost ridiculously innocent expression on her sleeping face.  
He presses a chaste kiss to her forehead, and thinks that, even if he can't love her the way he did Sherlock, he'd still be happy to stay this way, pressed together in their warm little cocoon of blankets, forever.  
  
The buzz of his phone startles him out of his thoughts, and he scrambles to find it, hoping to let Irene sleep just a little longer. As he finally connects with his mobile, two sets of long limbs wrap around his hips and shoulders, and he grins as he feels closed lips against the nape of his neck.  
"Sorry I woke you," he murmurs, turning slightly.  
She grins back sleepily.  
"I definitely know more enjoyable ways of waking me up," she teases, nuzzle his shoulder.  
He chuckles, but as he turns to his phone, he freezes.  
He stares.  
Irene shakes him gently.  
"John? What's the matter?"  
Wordlessly, he hands her the phone.

_John._  
 _Open the door_  
 _SH_

 

 

 

 

 

**_The end?_ **

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first time I've posted a story in almost a year. Sorry if I'm a little rusty, and I hope you like it. :)


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